


Red, Red Riding Hood

by MyMuseHatesMe



Series: Welcome to the Fairy Tale [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Blood Magic, Blood and Injury, Gen, Red Riding Hood - Freeform, Wolf!Sam, run for your life, woodcutter!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-16 18:55:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21276065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyMuseHatesMe/pseuds/MyMuseHatesMe
Summary: Two gods protect the villages within a 100-mile radius - but an annual sacrifice is required to extend the protection into the next year.  This year, you are the sacrifice.  But you have a different plan in mind.   [Gender neutral reader.](Soulless!Sam, Demon!Dean)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes traditions don't need to be followed.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you meet Dean-Mon.

Three rules: Stay on the path. Don’t run. And be quiet.

At least, that’s what you were told. But since you were sent here as a sacrifice for the Hidden Gods, you didn’t know whether to take the advice the elders gave you or if you should have told them to shove it where the sun didn’t shine.

The elders didn’t check the woven basket you carried before sending you off into the woods. They didn’t need to. You were dead anyway. 

But your grandmother said she’d give you more than just a piece of home to bring you comfort. And your mother and father hadn’t spent the majority of your life training you to be anything more than a sacrifice for gods.

So an hour into your trek, you stopped and opened the basket. The lovely blood-red cape was warm, and the leather belt with a blade wrapped up inside it only fueled your rage. There was a flask of holy water, two corked bottles of blessed salt, three crosses (two larger than the palm of your hand, and the third was small and silver hanging on a chain – which you immediately donned), an ornate bell the size of a marble, five sprigs of holly, and some food and water.

You had been sent out at sunrise, walking the past three hours and snow started falling for the past two and a half. It created an ethereal dreamscape around you. 

The stones that led the way up the mountain and further into the woods were not obscured by the snow so you would not lose your way. The same stones that have led countless men and women up to their deaths are the same ones you followed now, but perhaps not as resigned as some of them had been.

You were going to kill the Wolf as well as his Brother.

* * *

It was past noon and the snow was still falling. You wandered up the mountain as carefully as you could, following the path of stones.

“Well, hello there, little one.”

You spun to face the speaker, nerves alight with caution and preparedness to run. He was standing a respectful distance away from you – not so distant that he couldn’t hear you if you muttered, but not so close that you were alarmed.

He was tall and wore a red shirt beneath a heavy dirt-brown coat. His hair was short and blond, and an ax was held loosely in his left hand. He was smiling crookedly. “Is it that time of year already? That explains a bit.” His dark leather boots had coins strung along the tops, but not close enough for the metal disks to clank together.

You wrinkled your nose and huffed, a cloud of heat leaving your mouth and rising into the air, “Yes. It’s that time of year. You know, where one of us from the six villages in the hundred-mile vicinity is sent out here to die to appease the gods.”

“Ya seem a little upset,” the man tilted his head and sniffed. His eyes dropped to your waist as you shifted under his scrutinizing gaze, “Ooooh! And you have a knife! What’re you gonna do with that, Little One?”

Oh, so you were now officially _ Little One _. Great. But then, you supposed everyone to him was going to be little. He was very tall, after all.

At the mention of your knife, however, you hastily tried to cover it up by wrapping your cape around yourself. “Oh, you know,” you teased, switching the hand that carried the basket, “I’m gonna skin a deer and string up the carcass to fool the Wolf.”

He ignored your poorly concealed attempt to get a rise out of him and kept smiling; he glanced at where your knife hung at your side. He shook his head slightly and his brows drew together momentarily – as though he was confused by something. “That’s not a normal blade, is it?”

“And you’re not a normal man, now are you, _ Woodcutter _?”

Tossing his head back, he barked a long, hearty laugh that echoed through the woods. “Ah, kid,” he sighed, lowering his head to eye you dangerously, “You’re killin’ me here.” His smile dropped and he suddenly radiated danger. “What’s the knife made of?” His voice was suddenly low; no longer jovial and lighthearted.

You blinked. “It’s half silver, half steel,” you replied softly, “We didn’t know what could kill gods, so we made a guess.”

Little by little, he calmed down. Then he chuckled. “Well, that’s a first,” he mused, turning around and heading down a thin pathway that you hadn’t seen before, “Come on, then. Sam’s been cooking all day.”

Hesitating for a moment, you were torn about what to do. On the one hand, a god was inviting you to dinner. On the other hand, a _ god _ was inviting _ you _ to _ dinner _. The same god that had been killing people for the past… however long. The same god that was vanishing from view as he walked toward his home.

You hurried after him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you meet Sam'uel.

The house was smaller than you thought it would be. All the windows were lit up and glass torches made a pathway to the door. Dean-Mon opened the door and stepped inside the building. You were about to follow when the wind chime caught your eye.

It was made of bones.

Little bones, all linked together with thin wires. Bones of human hands and feet.

You rushed inside and closed the door as calmly as you could.

Dean-Mon gestured dramatically to his left and directed your attention to the source of the glorious smells you had followed. “Sammy-_ Sam _’uel, you didn’t tell me we were to expect company today!” His tone was teasing and you saw Sam’uel roll his eyes from his perch on a stool as he paused in carving up the roasted pig on the spit.

He was intimidating, the large, crackling fire casting harsh shadows in the hollows of his face. His gray shirt looked thin and worn, and there were a few repair stitches in his dark brown trousers, but his feet were bare. The sides of his shoulder-length brown hair were pulled back and knotted at the back of his head, effectively keeping his hair out of his face, save for a few strands. Metal glinted in the firelight as he turned his head and you recognized them as coins. Prayer coins, like Dean-Mon’s on his boots.

Sam’uel spared you a glance and pointed to the oak-hewn table and chairs. The table was set with a variety of rolls, pastries, nuts, berries, and vegetables. It was a small feast, really – but that was more food at one time than you had seen for a few years, at least. “Have a seat,” he ordered gruffly, returning to his task of severing the pig’s spine with a sickening _ crack _.

You flinched at the sound, but Dean-Mon grabbed the back of a chair as he passed by and pulled it out for you. Setting your basket under the chair, you took off your cloak and rolled it up before stowing it in the basket and taking a seat.

Dean-Mon sighs, as a man returning from a long day of work would. (What kind of work did gods do, anyway?)

Sam’uel finished preparing the pig and brought it over to the table on a large wooden platter. He was drawn up to his full height and when he approached the table, you shrank into your chair a bit at the figure he imposed. He was tall and strong and he caught your gaze just as he set the platter down. Pulling up a chair, he didn’t look away from you until Dean-Mon joined you two at the table.

The three of you ate in silence. It was good food and you were surprised that Sam’uel had bothered to give you a last meal at all.

You finished eating first, as your anxiety had wreaked havoc on your appetite over the past few days.

“Our guest has a knife,” Dean-Mon said casually, leaning back in his chair as he eyed you, “Half silver, half steel. Probably blessed steel, too.”

Sam’uel hummed, nodding as he mused, “That’s a first.” He pushed his plate forward a bit.

Dean-Mon clapped his hands once, spread them, and exclaimed with a huge smile on his face, “That’s what I said!”

“What did you bring the knife for?” Sam’uel turned to you, his gaze burning through you – but edged with curiosity.

There wasn’t any point in lying. Dean-Mon already knew about it. “To kill you,” you replied simply.

Sam’uel blinked, his face carefully blank.

“Tell you what,” Dean-Mon purred, leaning forward and resting his chin on his clasped hands to level a dark look at you, “You survive the night,” he glanced at his brother, “and we’ll grant you a day and night’s rest before you’ll have to survive the day. With me.”

You blinked. “That’s not fair. He can see in the dark,” you glanced at Sam’uel for emphasis.

Sam’uel smiled and tilted his head as though he was arguing with a toddler. “You think you’re the first to receive this offer?”

You shook your head. You weren’t that special. And you certainly weren’t the best of those that had been sent up here. “Of course not,” you answered, “but if I’m successful… I’ll certainly be the last.”

Dean-Mon broke out in laughter and the edges of his eyes crinkled as his white teeth shone sharply in the candlelight. He leaned back and stuck his tongue out to wet his lips, still smiling, and looked at his brother.

“That’s your deal?” Sam’uel’s eyes were calculating and intrigued, “Again, hardly an original proposition.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I. Don’t care. About being original,” you seethed, “I don’t care how insignificant I am to you. I don’t care how stupid you think I’m being. All I want is for my people to be free.”

“Hmm,” Dean-Mon mused, still appearing to be charmed by your defiance, “You know, Sammy… I like them. They’re angrier than the others. Got a… _ fire _ inside ‘em.”

“Yeah,” Sam’uel agreed, never his eyes off you, “You’re right. What’s your name?”

You raised an eyebrow. “If I give it to you, are you going to complain about how you’ve already had someone by that came come up here already and what a pain in the ass they were?”

“Actually, no,” Dean-Mon sighed, crossing his arms and slouching further down in his seat, “We’ve never asked anyone their names before now.” He nodded at you and finished, “You’ll be the first afforded that luxury.”

Oh. Well, shit. The gods really did only see you as food. Why bother with learning a name if their blood would be staining your teeth in the morning? You swallowed. “Y/N.”

“Y/N,” Sam’uel repeated gently. Then he stood and gestured to the door on the far side of the cabin before picking up the plates. “There’s a bed in that room. The sun sets in four hours. Get some rest.”

You nodded and slunk into the room, closing the door behind you and curling onto the bed. Sleep did not come for you. Four hours later, one of them knocked at your door.

Sliding the bell, a bottle of salt, and three sprigs of holly into the pocket of your cape, you clasped it around your shoulders and opened the door, following Sam’uel and Dean-Mon outside into the darkening woods.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you must survive the night with the Wolf.

You had been walking for about ten minutes in perfect silence. Sam’uel’s form was draped in a heavy coat of furs that fell to his ankles. He was still barefoot, and you cringed every time your gaze dropped to his snow-covered feet.

The sky was clear of clouds and the full moon was rising. Dean-Mon lead you and Sam’uel into a clearing and gestured you toward the center. You did as you were told.

Sam’uel circled around you. “You ready for this?”

There wasn’t any reason to lie. “No,” you said firmly, “I’m not. But I’m doing this anyway.” 

He huffed a laugh and shrugged off his pelt coat. It fell heavily in the snow. “Dean, you don’t interfere,” he ordered, rolling his joints and neck.

Dean-Mon smirked. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Brother. But, uh, just one thing.” He walked up to you and your heart sank as he removed your knife belt. “You can keep whatever else you brought, but I’m taking this,” he said, returning to his original position at the edge of the clearing.

You felt as though an extraordinary upper hand had been taken from you. But you still had your holly berries.

Sam’uel crouched down in the snow, hands unfurling to rest his palms flat over the ground. He lowered his head and curved his back upwards. Then he groaned. His limbs shook and the coins in his hair rattled against each other.

You watched him transform with a terrified fascination. Thick fur sprouted from his skin. He shouted as his joints changed and snapped. His muscles expanded, his face elongated and his nose took on the shape of a wolf’s muzzle. His clothes ripped and fell around him in a tattered pile.

Sam’uel was gone. The Wolf stood before you, his ears flat against his skull and his lips curled as he growled. The sound rumbled in your chest and you stood very still.

“Magnificent, ain’t he?” Dean-Mon marveled, venturing closer to the Wolf, “Absolutely beautiful.”

The Wolf turned and growled pointedly at him, as if to say, _ Shut up, Dean. _ Even in his wolf form, it was undeniable that they were brothers. You smiled and laughed quietly, unable to stop yourself. The Wolf snapped his attention toward you and your smile dropped immediately.

Right. Time to kill or be killed. Your voice shook slightly as you asked, “What are the rules?” _ Always ask what the rules of combat are, _ you remembered your mother saying.

“It’s very simple,” Dean-Mon grinned (you swore his eyes turned black in the darkness of the forest), “Run. And don’t die.”

You nodded. The Wolf bared his teeth and crouched low, his great tail sweeping back and forth across the snow. “Who starts? Him or me?”

“You,” Dean-Mon said brightly, spreading his arms wide, “Any direction. Start running. Two-minute headstart. Go.”

Not needing to be told twice, you took off.

* * *

You didn’t know how long you had been out in the woods, running and hiding and occasionally tying a piece of clothing to a bush or tree to throw the Wolf off your trail. The moonlight illuminated everything, allowing you to see as well as you assumed the Wolf could.

His howls echoed through the trees every now and then. You didn’t have a timepiece to tell, but you wondered if he howled once to mark the passing of an hour. If he was, he had already howled three times, which would mean that three hours had passed. Eight more to go.

Two howls after, he was close. Very close. You could hear him snuffling and gently sliding through the snowbanks. Occasionally, you would come across a tree that had fresh claw marks gouging the bark – four perfect lines that he had made a short time ago.

You crossed his tracks one howl later; his paw-prints were nearly twice the size your hands if you spread your fingers as far apart as they could go.

* * *

On his tenth howl, he had found you. The son of a bitch had been and still was toying with you. He could easily overtake you with his giant strides, but instead, he was running circles around you as you fled in a certain direction, allowing you to glimpse his fur for a moment before disappearing.

You didn’t know which direction you were running in, but you didn’t allow him to alter your course. Your lungs were on fire by now, stitches in your sides, and your throat dried out by the cold winter air. Eventually, you crashed into a clearing where a few boulders stood up out of the ground. Stumbling to a halt, you paused to gain your bearings and your breath.

A deep rumbling sounded from behind you. The Wolf was with you.

The holly. You grasped it in your hand and turned over to face the growling, hungry creature slowly stalking toward you. Panting, you got to your feet and stared him down. “Come on, Sam’uel,” you breathed, seeing how his fur bristled at your words and his lips curled back further (did that make him look a little more thrilled?), “Come on, I’m right here. I’m not afraid to die.” 

You weren’t afraid to die. You weren’t.

He tensed.

_ Not afraid, not afraid. _

He pounced – jaws opening, teeth glinting in the fading moonlight. You lunged forward, shoving your hand down his throat and crushing the berries-

_ Pain. _ You caught yourself on your free hand in the snowbank. _ Tingling. _ Every nerve was screaming. You were shaking. _ Not afraid, not afraid… not afraid to die, mother. _ Silence. A hacking cough from behind you.

You turned. Your right arm felt strange. _ Sacrifice is pain. _ From your mid-upper arm down, you didn’t _ have _ an arm. It had been bitten off. Another hacking cough from Sam’uel, as though he was trying to dislodge something in his throat. _ Sacrifice is pain, otherwise it isn’t sacrifice. _ The great beast was trembling.

Your blood painted the snow a brilliant, dark red in wide arcs. The sky was brightening, heralding the approach of the sun.

“SAMMY!” Dean-Mon shouted, branches snapped as he tore through the trees, “SAMMY, SPIT IT OUT!”

“He can’t,” you breathed, smiling wickedly as you collapsed to the ground to admire your work, “Believe me, he’s trying.” Dean-Mon slid to his knees and pushed the Wolf to the ground and to his side. You were lightheaded from the blood loss.

You laid down in the cold snow and watched as Dean-Mon held the Wolf’s jaw open and pull your unattached arm from his maw. Your breath was the loudest thing in your ears. Your heartbeat shook your body.

Dawn. It was dawn. You survived the night.

You were so… so tired. You closed your eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you have a conversation with Dean-Mon and Sam’uel.

You woke up on a wooden surface. Strange words were being muttered in a low voice. _ Dean-Mon, _ you thought venomously.

Turning your head in the direction of the voice, you opened your eyes. Dean-Mon was kneeling next to Sam’uel on a cot beneath the window. Sam’uel was pale and he was covered in a pile of blankets.

“Why aren’t I dead?” you asked gently. Not that you weren’t grateful to be alive, but… still. You _ should _ be dead. If the roles were reversed, you would have killed him as he lay bleeding out in the snow.

“Because we made a deal,” he said calmly, removing the cloth from Sam’uel’s forehead, “And we don’t break deals.” He looked at you over his shoulder before returning to mop his brother’s sweat off his chest. “How’s your arm?”

At the mention of your arm, you looked down at it and sat up, pure disbelief blocking any rational thought. It was back! Your arm was once again attached to your body! You rolled up your sleeve and ignored the scars that scored the inside of your forearm. There was a band of… something (Words? A tattoo of words?) wrapped around the skin where the limb had been reattached.

“It’s a spell,” Sam’uel wheezed. Dean-Mon shushed him, but he continued, “It’ll stay… on your skin, it’s on your bones-” He was seized with a hacking cough and Dean-Mon did his best to comfort him. When he stilled, Sam’uel caught your gaze and he added, “It’s our magic. And everyone who sees that mark will know- that we healed you.”

You nodded and lowered your eyes back to your arm. “Thank you,” you murmured.

“Sorry, what was that? Couldn’t hear you over the fact that you deliberately poisoned my brother by shoving a handful of holly berries down his throat and _ sacrificing _ your arm to do it,” Dean-Mon said. His tone was a mixture of hatred, respect, and… something else that you couldn’t name. His voice softened and he asked, “How’d you know about the holly berries, anyway?”

Shrugging, you hopped off the table and approached the two, “My mother always told me stories,” you explained, dipping a cloth in cool water and wringing it out, “about her childhood. When she was a little girl, she was friends with a young demigod, see…” Sam’uel’s eyes cracked open as you gently pressed the damp cloth to his forehead, “and she accidentally hurt him one winter.” He sighed softly and his eyes fluttered closed as you continued washing his face. “The holly burned the demigod’s skin. My mother was trying to keep them safe from faeries, but she didn’t know he was a demigod, so… that’s when she realized.”

Dean-Mon observed you for a bit before deciding you weren’t going to hurt his brother while his back was turned. Standing up, he went to his potions bench and set to making a healing draught. “What happened after?”

You shrugged again. “Mother never saw him again after that. For a few years, the crops were bad, that cattle were sick, and many villagers died suddenly. My mother never stopped blaming herself.”

“Hm,” Dean-Mon shrugged, snapping a root in half, “Well, that’s a thing.”

The conversation lulled and you kept patting the cloth over Sam’uel’s feverish skin. Dean-Mon stirred, chopped, crushed, and mixed at his station. The coins on his boots were making you mad with curiosity, as were the coins in Sam’uel’s hair. You were terrified of what would happen if you asked. But you asked anyway, in a small voice, “What gods do you pray to?”

Dean-Mon froze. Sam’uel stopped breathing and slowly opened his eyes to look up at you.

Oh no. That was the wrong question. What was the etiquette for asking gods things? Hastily trying to patch the ruined comradery between the three of you, you stammered, “Or, or are those our prayers to… to you?”

Sam’uel started shaking and Dean-Mon slowly returned to his work. You glanced at Dean-Mon, whose back was still turned to you, and when you looked back to Sam’uel, you saw his teeth and understood his shaking was silent laughter. “Do you know,” he began in a low tone, “how gods are made?”

You blinked. “I… thought they were just… always there? You know, birthed from a lightning storm or… carved from the bones of a giant?”

“Those are the Eldest Gods.” Dean-Mon was the one who spoke. His voice startled you. “The Eldest Gods were the ones we prayed to for safety.” He turned to you and braced his hands against the wooden table for support. His eyes were sad and heavy.

“We weren’t always gods,” Sam’uel explained, gently taking your wrist and lowering it to your lap, “We were human, once. A long time ago.”

Your jaw went slack as Sam’uel sat up and Dean-Mon handed him a mug with a swirling, green-gray mixture inside. This wasn’t happening. This wasn’t real. Sam’uel downed the potion with a slight grimace.

“How- how long ago?” The question was meant to come out of your mouth much firmer than it left, but it was already asked.

Dean-Mon shrugged and Sam’uel replied, “One hundred, eighty-three years.”

“Sam and I, we were lost up here in a blizzard,” Dean-Mon explained, “We prayed for safety and to return to our home, but the gods gave us a different answer.” He paused before continuing, “We died. Buried in the snow. When we came back, we knew we were different, but we wouldn’t understand _ just _ how different until the full moon.”

Sam’uel laughed once, sharply. “I had no idea what was happening. I thought I was dying all over again,” he glanced at you and then crossed the floor to a cabinet on the other side of the room, “It hurts, the transformation; it hurts every time.” Opening the wooden panels and sifting through the items within, he continued, “We tried to leave, too. We tried to go home, but once we made it a mile past the tree line, we just stopped. As if there was an invisible barrier there, physically and mentally, barring us from our journey home.” He picked up a small leather bag and brought it back to the cot, undoing the knot and upending the bag into his other hand. Six large coins tumbled and clinked in his palm. Handing them out to you, he added, “These appeared on our doorstep on the fifth year here. It was summer and we stopped an invasion.”

You remembered that story. A snarling wolf the size of a barn tearing through the ranks of armored soldiers and a man made of black smoke moving from village to village in the blink of an eye, dispatching raiders with terrifying ease.

You had no idea. You surmised that the elders hadn’t even a clue as to the story. Once-human gods forever trapped on a mountain they died on, charged with protecting the villages around it and taking an annual tribute.

“The only time we could leave the mountain was when we were defending our charges,” Dean-Mon said as you took the coins.

The first four were golden, stamped with the likeness of the eldest gods on one side, and on the other was their title: Michael, Defender and General; Lucifer, Light-Bringer and Muse of Music, Raphael, Judge and Lieutenant; and Gabriel, Messenger and Trickster. The other two were copper: Dean Winchester, Protector of Home and Family; and Sam Winchester, Hunter of the Wicked and Defender of the Righteous.

Why Sam’uel had the longest title, you had no idea. “Why are the coins copper instead of silver?” 

“Silver burns me,” Sam’uel explained, a slightly embarrassed tone in his voice, “That’s why Dean took your knife – it can kill me.”

Ah. You looked out the window, remembering how Dean-Mon promised you a day and a night to rest before fighting him. It was sunset, which meant this coming night might be your last.

You helped Dean-Mon make more potions for Sam’uel to heal, and helped them both make meals and clean up afterwards. At about midnight, Dean-Mon put Sam’uel to bed and gestured to the room you laid in the last time. “You’d best get some rest,” he offered quietly, “Sun’ll be up in eight hours.”

You nodded and bid him goodnight.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it is Dean-Mon’s turn to hunt you.

Daylight made everything look different. Dean-Mon walked you out to the clearing where he had led you the last time with Sam’uel. He allowed you your knife this time – which you thought was only half-fair since he brought his ax with him. 

Sam’uel wasn’t with you because he was still sleeping; Dean’s potions helped him heal but forced him to sleep heavily during that time.

He got the center and sighed, turning to face you. “All right, let’s do this. I have an ax, you have a knife, we’re in a forest,” he gestured between the two of you, “you know the rest.”

“Oh course,” you agreed, nodding, “You’ll try to kill me, I’ll do my best to not die… yes, it’ll be very interesting.”

He laughed. “I hope you survive,” he said in a low voice, sobering slightly, “I really do.”

You blinked. “What?”

Then he gripped his ax and swung at you. You yelped and jumped away from him. Leveling a disgusted and horrified look at him, you demanded, “What, no headstart this time?”

Grinning, he shrugged, “Aw, sweetheart, I’m not a giant wolf. I’m a man.”

“Hardly!”

“You’re right.” He vanished from his spot and a noise behind you tipped you to his presence behind you. Stumbling away and turning, you put distance between the two of you. He looked at you with his chin held high.  **“I’m a god.”**

_ ALL RIGHT, THEN. HE CAN DO THAT, APPARENTLY. _

**“Run,”** he said.

So you did.

* * *

Snow crunched, and you barely ducked in time to avoid his swing from where he had appeared behind you. The ax was buried in the tree trunk. 

You jerked away from him, but your neckline caught and forced a gagging noise from you. Grabbing your cape, you turned to look-

Shit.

Your cape hood was caught in the tree with the ax head. Sparing a glance to Dean-Mon, he smiled wickedly at you, mad delight and bloodlust sparked in his eyes – he was having  _ fun _ . He let go of the ax, pinning your cape to the tree.

**“Fancy meeting you here,”** he quipped casually, that stupid grin still plastered on his face,  **“Come here often?”**

No. Not happening.

Unclasping the cape, you rolled away from the maniac – and when you got to your feet, you ran. It was colder without your cape, but you also knew it wouldn’t give you away as much as it had. But you knew he didn’t need a cape to find you.

**“Run all you want, Little One,”** his voice boomed from somewhere ahead and to the left of you. You dodged to the right and avoided his swing downward (how many axes did he  _ have _ ?) to where you would have been.  **“I’m still gonna eat you.”**

Yeah, screw that  _ right _ to Hell.

You unsheathed your knife and held it in a near-blind panic as you continued racing down the mountainside. He was going to catch you, you knew it, but you were at least going to give him a chase.

So you did. You ran and ran and ran. He disappeared for seemingly several hours at a time, which you took advantage of by hiding and catching your breath.

The third time you got up from hiding, your hair stood on end. Something was wrong.

You turned to the source of your uneasiness and realized why. Dean-Mon was right there. Ax being brought down in a violent swing.

Time slowed. There was no way you could avoid that hit. But there was, however, a way to minimize the damage you received. Spinning to your right, you twisted your body away as he brought the ax down.

Metal sliced through leather, skin, muscle, and scraped bone. A scream ripped from your throat as blood gushed from your wound. You got to your feet and ran as best you could. You didn’t know if he’d give you time to bind your bleeding thigh, but you didn’t have much of a choice if you wanted to have a chance at surviving.

You dove under a thicket bush and laid there for a few minutes until your desperate heartbeat calmed and your breathing stopped burning. You cut a strip from your shirt and tied it around your thigh.

He stalked past your hiding place once, calling out to you in a playful, sing-song manner.  **“Oh, Little One… Red, Red Riding Hood, come on out, now. Don’t be shy!”**

You waited a long time before getting up and moving on, limping lightly as you went.

* * *

A branch snapped behind you. You whirled around barely in time to see him heft his ax over his shoulder, grasping the handle with both hands.

You narrowed your eyes and dashed toward him. He threw his ax. You went to your knees and leaned back, sliding forward over the frozen ground. It passed over you with inches between. Lurching forward, you aimed at Dean-Mon’s chest and tightened your grip on the knife. He didn’t seem to have anticipated you throwing yourself at him, as his face fell in confusion and he took a step back.

You slammed into him, knocking him off the ground and into the snow. Burying the blade in his heart, you looked him in the eyes. Both of you were breathing heavily.

Dean-Mon’s face was carefully blank. But he was still breathing.

Shit. The knife hadn’t worked! Fumbling in your pockets, you scrambled for the vial of salt.

He laughed under you.  **“By blood we have been made,”** he whispered, as you uncorked the vial,  **“And by blood, we will be unmade.”** He still spoke in that blood-rage voice that made you understand that he was a protector god of family – and you had hurt his family. Frantically, you poured the salt into his open mouth. He gagged, turned his head, and spat it out forcefully. Blood, salt, and saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth as he looked back up at you and smiled.

Panic spiked in your chest and your shoved yourself to the side, to get away, to get far far away from him-

**“Oh, no.”** He grabbed your wrist and yanked you back down into the snow beside him.  **“You’re the last tribute, remember?”**

Your leg hurt. You were still bleeding. You had stabbed a god. You had poured salt in his mouth. Why wasn’t he angry?

**“If you last through the day,”** he reminded you. It was another hour at least until sundown. He huffed a laugh and raised his eyebrows as he said,  **“I give up. You win.”**

You blinked.  _ What?  _ “Wh- What? No, you can’t- Can you? Is that-” you narrowed your eyes as he released your wrist and pulled the knife from his chest, “Why?”

He got to his knees, placed a hand on your shoulder, and pushed you down.

Fear surged through your bones. Had he lied just then? He was going to kill you. You were going to die-

His free hand covered the bandaged gash in your thigh and he raised his face to the sky. His mouth opened and strange, hollow words were spoken. His eyes were taken over by a bright green light – the same light that shone from his hand on your leg. A cold heat seared your skin and you screamed, throwing your head back and squeezing your eyes shut.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is one more sacrifice for you to make.

You inhaled sharply as you came to and registered the flat surface you were lying on. “This is the second time I’ve awoken on this table,” you muttered.

“Hopefully, it shall be the last,” Sam’uel said flatly, helping you sit up.

You groaned and rubbed your thigh – which was now devoid of pain. “What happened?” 

“Dean healed you, you passed out, and then he brought you back here,” he replied simply, leading you to a chair he had placed next to the cabinet across from the door.

Looking around, you noted the absence of the person who had, apparently, saved your life. And let you win. “Did… did he tell you what happened?”

“Yes, of course.” His back was to you as he looked out the window and into the darkness outside. “It’s a little past midnight. He’ll be back soon.”

“Where did he go?” 

Heavy footfalls sounded on the sturdy wooden walkway, declaring Dean-Mon’s return.

The door burst open, he stepped inside, and announced to Sam’uel, “Well, they ‘all stood witness to the events that transpired within our woods’,” making air quotes and making a mocking expression, “and they said we’re good to go on it.” Shucking his coat off, he shut the door carefully and toed out of his boots. “I mean,” he ruffled the light dusting of snow from his hair, “we were gonna do it anyway, but I think they already knew that, so….”

You had a feeling that Dean-Mon didn’t care for whoever ‘they’ were that ‘stood witness’ – though Sam’uel seemed unsurprised by anything Dean-Mon was saying. Gesturing to the fireplace, he said, “I finished your potion for you.”

“Aww. Thanks, Sammy.”

“Screw you,” but there was a lightness in his voice and a ghost of a genuine smile on his face as he and Dean-Mon walked to the oak table, “Let’s get this over with. We’ve been like this too long.” The plain wooden bowl in the center of the table sat ominously as the brothers stood on either side of the table.

“Psh,” Dean pulled a knife from his belt and rolled up a sleeve, “You and me both, kid.”

You blinked. What the hell was going on? “Um.”

Sam’uel glanced at you as Dean-Mon sliced his forearm, groaning slightly as blood dripped into the bowl. “Stay there,” he ordered as Dean-Mon wiped the blade and handed it to him. Sam rolled up his sleeve, as well, and made a cut on his arm in the same space as Dean had.

You closed your eyes and turned toward the door to your room as you tried not to listen to the liquid dripping into the bowl. You desperately wished you could run away, hide; get far away from here and go back to the life you were taken from.

Peaceful. Calm. Safe. Well, except for the annual ‘Somebody’s got to go into the woods this year!’ thing.

You snapped back to reality when you realized someone was standing in front of you. Sam’uel held out a mug of the iron-stinking, red liquid to you.

Your eyes were wide as you stiffly shook your head and shrank away from it.

His jaw clenched and he took another step forward, proffering it again. “Drink it,” he ordered tightly.

Shaking your head again, you whispered, “I really don’t want to.”

“Do you want the tributes to continue?” Dean-Mon stepped away from the cauldron with two other mugs in his hands and stood next to Sam’uel – who was still glaring at you. “‘Cause if I remember correctly, you said that you wanted to be the last.”

You swallowed and looked up at the Woodcutter, utterly terrified. That wasn’t what was supposed to happen. You were supposed to win, and then return to your normal, god-sacrifice-free life. “Yes, but… it wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

“Nothing in this life is supposed to be anything. The only things that are promised in this life are death and the dawn – you are not promised love or joy or friendship. You take what you’re given, and you do something with it,” Sam’uel ground out, “We are giving you this. Now take it…  _ and drink it _ .”

Your heart was pounding. Your hands were trembling. Gods willingly bleeding and offering- no,  _ ordering _ a mortal to join them in immortality? That was barely a ghost of a rumor. You took the mug and both of them relaxed slightly.

“One more sacrifice. That’s all.” Sam’uel took a cup from his brother and said, “You have to drink all of it, Y/N. All. Of it.”

_ Not afraid to die, mother, I’m not afraid to die… _

You brought the mug to your lips and allowed your gaze to fall on the dancing flames below the iron cauldron.

“You keep saying you’re not afraid to die,” Dean-Mon mused quietly, “Does that mean you’re afraid to live?”

_ Yes. No. I’m not sure anymore. _

“Is,” you began nervously, “Is it gonna hurt?”

“Yes,” Sam’uel answered, approaching you and placing a heavy hand on your shoulder, “It will. But we will be here to help you through it.”

You swallowed. Took in a deep, steadying breath. And lifted the mug to your lips. It tasted sweet and foul at the same time. You grimaced, but you drained the cup. Shuddering, you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand and set the empty cup on the floor. Sam’uel and Dean-Mon had drained their mugs, as well.

They looked at you and you looked at them. “Well,” you whispered, “Now what-” Horrible pain sliced up the front of your torso, from your navel to your throat, and you gasped.

You didn’t know when you ended up on the floor, you were only faintly aware that your knees ached with the force at which you dropped to them. The same pain carved along your spine and you arched against the new agony. Crying out, you felt strong arms wrap around you and pull you against the two gods.

They were in pain, too. They shook and took in heavy breaths as they to you and each other.

“Dean…” Sam’uel breathed through gritted teeth.

“I’ve got you,” Dean-Mon promised, his voice tight with pain, “I’ve got you, I got both of you.”

* * *

No one in the villages truly understood what happened or why. It became a new tradition for the gods to come down the mountain every year at midnight for three days.

The first night, two nights before the full moon, the sound of an ax felling trees would sound from dusk til dawn. The second night, a figure clothed in a blood-red cape would walk around the inside perimeter of the forest, carrying a lantern to light their way. On the third night, when the full moon rose and shone over the snow-covered landscape, a great wolf stalked down the mountain and circled the forest; the creature paused every hour or so to let out a long howl that rattled the windows in the houses in closest proximity to it.

The elders of the villages hadn’t caught on to why the gods were making themselves known in that manner or who the red-cloaked figure was. So the next morning, the tribute was sent up the mountain – and the following morning, they returned. They told the village elders how the gods greeted them warmly, gave them a meal and a place to sleep (the windchime hanging had bones and a little bell hung from the lowest one) and then sent them home when the sun came up.

The villages were still protected by the gods, there was simply no more need for sacrifices anymore.

There was no more need for blood to be shed, and the people rejoiced. But no one wandered furthered into the woods than was necessary, and they certainly didn’t set so much as a toe off the path, either.

No need to tempt fate, after all. The Wolf might miss the chase and the Woodcutter might need some meat for his dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's the end of this story! Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
